


it followed me home

by aliciutza



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Blood, F/M, Jon's family name is Stark, R Plus L Equals J, Supernatural Elements, but like only a little bit of blood at the very end you can totally skip that, creepy manor aesthetic, halloween fic, some creepy sex in the creepy manor too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciutza/pseuds/aliciutza
Summary: When Jon gets a letter informing him of the death of the last of the Targaryens, he doesn’t know what to feel. In spite of never being accepted as one of them, he decides that he at least owes it to himself to visit the Targaryen Manor. Nothing could have prepared him for what he found.A Jonerys Halloween story.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 82
Kudos: 190





	it followed me home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atetheredmind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atetheredmind/gifts).



> For Ames, because she loves Halloween and I love her. 
> 
> It’s been hard for me to create anything since August, so here goes nothing, I guess :D I’m close to having a mental breakdown over my job, but I am trying so hard to keep it together, you guys. Thank you for being patient with me, it means a lot !  
> Unbetaed oop because why not.  
> Enjoy!

> Dear Mr Stark,
> 
> It is with deepest and utmost regret that I have to inform you of the death of Sir Aemon Targaryen.
> 
> It was his dying wish that the last surviving member of the Targaryen line own the Dragonstone Manor. You will find the deed to the aforementioned property as well as the keys in the enclosed envelope.
> 
> As his life-long friend and executor of his will and testament, it is my duty to urge you to keep the Manor and restore it to its former glory. However, given the relationship between yourself and the Targaryen side of the family, I understand if you wish to be rid of it as soon as possible.
> 
> Either way, I sincerely hope you at least visit the property, and choose to keep certain family heirlooms. I'd be most devastated to see all memory of the Targaryens destroyed and forgotten.
> 
> My deepest condolences,
> 
> May you choose wisely,
> 
> Sir Barristan Selmy

The few words written in the mysterious letter echoed again in his mind as he tossed and turned in the middle of the night, sentences etched in his memory since that very morning, when his fingers touched the grainy thick paper, its header embossed with the three headed dragon. 

Jon had seen the old family sigil twice in his life, and both times it brought sorrow. All his life he tried his best to ignore that side of his family—after all, his ‘father’ had made it clear to his mother, even before he was born, that he wanted nothing to do with her and _her_ son. 

Lyanna had tried (one too many times in his opinion) to get them to connect with Jon. She only gave up when Jon was thirteen and had to be rushed to the ER after a nasty fall while playing with Robb. The Targaryens couldn’t be bothered to even reply to her frantic calls or texts, let alone check up on him. From that day on, Lyanna never brought them up again. 

With a frustrated huff he kicked the duvet off him and started pacing the bedroom. He knew he shouldn’t care, not after everything that happened; a letter didn't—shouldn't—change anything. Yet something nagged at him, gnawed at his heart, pushing and pulling at his need to belong, at his childhood dreams of being considered one of them, of belonging to their family and of being called Jon Targaryen. 

_No_ , he thought with disgust—at himself, mostly. He had a family: the Starks. He had a father: his own uncle had been more of a father to him than the so called Rhaegar Targaryen could have ever dreamed. 

He raked a hand through his messy hair, his forehead resting just for a moment on the cool glass of the window. Maybe the cold would help make sense of the storm inside his brain. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he was supposedly the last of the line, and that for some reason _he_ finally counted for something, at least for the line of succession. Or perhaps it was the need to see what a life in which he was allowed to embrace his Targaryen side looked like. As the sunlight finally bathed the vast backyard into a hazy autumnal light, Jon made up his mind. 

A hastily packed duffle bag, a made up last minute business trip and a short flight later, Jon found himself sitting in the rental he got from the airport, waiting for the ferry to reach the island of Dragonstone. There was a hole slowly forming in his stomach, pulling him under, and nothing seemed to stop its growth. What he expected to find in the old manor he did not know. _Liar_ , he thought. 

To occupy his mind, he read again through the deed, despite having it memorised by now. He put off signing it as much as he could, one last act of rebellion against the family that did not want him. He felt stupid, hating how a simple signature could render him a mess. But signing the deed meant accepting the part of himself that he denied for his entire life. He couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —sign it before he got some answers first. 

The slight bump let him know that the ferry finally reached shore. With a final deep inhale, Jon drove off the ferry and into the small town that was Dragonstone. 

He barely left the harbour behind when the engine sputtered and abruptly stopped, ribbons of smoke making their way out from under the hood. Jon cursed the sleazebag from the rental; he should have known something was wrong from the way the guy was too eager to get him out the door and out of the airport with the ‘last’ car available. 

The town looked too calm for a Thursday afternoon. There was no one outside, no children playing, no cars—nothing. Jon got out of the car, slamming the door shut against the useless piece of junk he got conned into renting. The sound echoed through the silent streets, bouncing off the old three-story buildings and going right through him. He shivered and lifted up the collar of his pea coat buttoning up to his neck. The quietness put him on edge. 

Brown, orange, red and yellow leaves crunched under his boots as he made his way through the silent town, in hopes of bumping into someone. He typed the address again into his phone, but the signal was so bad, it barely loaded his own location. The smell of freshly baked apple pie stopped him in his tracks; it made his stomach growl loudly, reminding him that he hadn’t ingested anything but coffee since the previous night. Jon followed the mouth-watering aroma, rounding the corner to arrive in front of a small diner. The place was empty, save for the young waitress sitting in one of the high bar stools, engrossed in the book perched on her lap. 

“Hello,” he tried and failed not to startle the girl, who jumped and nearly fell on the floor. Jon rushed to help steady her.

“R’hllor’s balls, are you trying to kill me,” she screeched as the book hit the floor with a thud. She pushed him away as her hand went to her heart. From her shallow breaths, Jon knew that it was beating so fast it threatened to jump out her chest. 

“Sorry, I tried _not_ to startle you,” he picked up the book and his eyes glossed over the title— _All Saints’ Eve: Rituals and Protections_.

The girl snatched it from his grasp. “School project,” she explained although Jon didn’t even get the chance to ask. “You’re not from around here.” It wasn’t a question.

“What gave it away,” Jon smirked as he unbuttoned his coat. “Are you still serving food,” he asked as he moved to sit on one of the chairs by the bar. 

“Cook’s on break, but I can serve you a piece of that pie if you’re too hungry to wait.” The girl rounded the counter and went to wash her hands. At his nod, she cut him a generous portion and put it in front of him. Jon’s mouth was watering; he immediately dug in, his eyes closing as the apple and cinnamon aroma exploded on his tongue. 

The brunette giggled at his moaning. “That sounds about right.” She cut a smaller piece for herself and dug in, occasionally glancing his way. “So…” she eventually started.

“So,” Jon popped another piece of pie in his mouth. 

“What’s brought you to our boring little town?” she finally asked.

He chuckled, “I wouldn’t say it’s boring.”

“Oh please, I should know, I’ve lived here my entire life.”

She didn’t seem older than his favourite cousin. For the first time since he got the blasted letter, he felt the pit in his stomach start to close. Distractions were good. “Family. I’m here to see what’s left of it.” 

“Oh.” Her gaze dropped to the plate. “Sorry about that.” 

Although Jon didn’t need to say the exact reason for his visit, he wondered whether he managed to convey enough regret in his voice for it to prompt immediate condoleances. “That’s alright. I was never close to them. I’m just here... _fuck_ , I don’t know why I’m here.” He didn’t know why he was suddenly pouring his heart out to a teenage waitress. _Way to be a creep_ , he thought to himself. “Anyway,” he said as he pulled out his wallet. “I’ll get out of your hair. Thank you for the pie, it’s the best I’ve ever had…” he paused, looking at her. 

“It’s Shireen,” she offered.

“Jon," he smiled. “Is the phone signal always this bad, I just can’t seem to get the GPS to work.” 

“Always,” she laughed. “But it’s a small town and I’m good at giving directions. Where do you need to go?”

“Targaryen Manor,” Jon said, buttoning his coat again, ready to brave the cool wind that started to pick up outside. When no answer came, he turned around to make sure Shireen was still there. 

The smile she wore before faltered; she blinked a few times before she smiled again—except this time it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Follow the main road up the hill. You’ll know you’re on the right track when you reach the stone dragons.” Then she grabbed his plate and started scribbling something in a notepad by the register. 

Jon waited for her to say something else, but she never did. “Thanks again, kid.” 

From outside the diner, he could already see the top of the manor’s black roof. It didn’t seem like a long walk. As soon as he stepped on the street, he felt like he was being watched. He tried to steal glances here and there, even turned a few times, yet the street seemed as empty as before. Not one soul outside or inside the houses, peeking from the windows. Despite himself, he picked up the pace and walked as fast as he could without breaking into a jog. 

When it seemed like he was at the top of the hill, the houses cleared and gave way to a multitude of trees and bushes. At first Jon thought it was a park, but when he reached two dragon statues he realised it was private property. The beginning of the manor’s domain— _his_ property. 

“Seems excessive,” Jon muttered to no one in particular. He pulled the set of old keys from his bag and went through them until he settled on the biggest one. It fit perfectly into the keyhole and he only had to turn it once before the mechanism clicked and gave way. 

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. He pushed the cold metal gates, and with a prolonged screech they opened all he way. A shiver went through him; Jon didn’t bother to close or lock them behind him. There was barely any light left by the time he made it to the front door. Gusts of strong wind blew withered leaves here and there, and he could swear there were noises coming from the hedges. 

“Stop being stupid,” he muttered as he pushed the golden key with the Targaryen sigil through the lock of the massive dark wooden doors. 

With a loud groan, the doors opened to reveal a dark vast vestibule. Mercifully, the wall lights roared to life when he flipped the switch upwards, chasing out some of the creepiness of the house. The wooden floors creaked under his boots with every step he made further into the manor. Protective white sheets were draped over most of the furniture inside: from chairs and tables to even the few electronics inside the place. Jon found himself unable to resist, the need to know about his family at its peak. He dropped the duffle bag by the large velvet sofa in the sitting room, and ventured more inside, taking down all the sheets he could find in his path. 

At the top of the grand staircase in the vestibule, there sat a big frame—for some reason, it was the only one covered. Without thinking, Jon pulled on the sheet; it fell to the floor in a big cloud of dust. He coughed, and he was sure he inhaled most of it. None of the others had dust on them like this one. He gasped when he came face to face with two violet eyes. Actually, three sets of eyes, each a different shade of violet. Jon took a step back, still coughing. He had seen at least one pair of eyes—once, in a picture on the internet that he’d sneakily searched on his cousins’ computer—it belonged to his father. 

He didn’t know who the other two people were. They looked so much like his father, they could have been his siblings—although Jon couldn’t remember if he had any. There was a younger man—perhaps slightly older than Jon himself—his face cold, jaw locked and unsmiling, standing on his father’s right side. The other one was a beautiful woman—perhaps the most beautiful Jon had ever seen. And although she didn’t smile, Jon thought she looked friendly. As he studied the painting, he noticed all three of them were dressed in red and black and wore a rendition of the Targaryen sigil: the two men had signet rings, and the woman wore a medallion hanging from a golden necklace. 

Bile rose in his throat: for the first time in years, Jon finally allowed himself to feel all the jealousy that festered inside him. He should have been allowed to wear a ring like that. He was a Targaryen after all, as much as his father hated it. He needed to get out of here. What was the use of getting it now when his father hated him for what he represented: a mistake a person his status wasn’t allowed to make. He climbed the stairs without sparing another look in the painting’s way. 

The silence was even more deafening upstairs. There only seemed to be bedrooms—lots of them—and two playrooms. There it was again, that sinking feeling in his stomach, as he opened the first bedroom door. It only seemed to get more intense as he made his way from one room to the other. He couldn’t find it in himself to take the sheets down, so he moved faster until he circled back to the large staircase, taking two stairs at a time, making sure not to look at the painting—he should definitely cover it again tomorrow—and stopping only once he reached the main sitting room. Jon felt his coat for his phone, checking it again; it showed no signal. 

Desperate to hear something else than his own breathing, he scoured the drawers underneath the large TV. “Yes,” he breathed in relief as he found the remote in the second drawer. The large screen illuminated, the loud volume making him jump.

“R’hllor’s balls,” Jon muttered as he turned it down to a more acceptable level. The old man must have been the last one to watch it. As he sat on the couch he suddenly realised there should be more people in the house. Didn’t the Targaryens have people caring for the house and the garden? Perhaps they all left once Sir Aemon passed away. At least that’s what he would have done. _One less thing to worry about_ , he mused.

Jon put his feet up on the small table in front of the comfy couch. Tomorrow he should go to town and find a realtor to help him. Maybe he could sort through the house while they did the appraisal, and be gone by Sunday, forget about even coming here. Perhaps he could even stay a few days in King’s Landing; his cousin would definitely love that. Yes, that sounded like a good plan.

Jon startled awake, shivering and his neck stiff.

He dragged his hands over his face as the blue light from the TV blinded him. His hand found the remote and he turned it off. The old clock on top of the fireplace indicated that it was three in the morning. Jon didn’t even notice he was that exhausted. Outside, the wind moaned, sending more shivers down his spine.

“I should have brought Arya along,” he said, although unsure why he felt the need to speak out loud. 

He could have sworn there was a thud coming from upstairs. 

The idea that someone else might be in the manor briefly crossed his mind, before he snuffed it out. No, he was alone; but the thought wasn’t as comforting as he hoped. The floor creaked loudly outside the sitting room—it sounded like someone was in the vestibule. 

_It’s just creepy old house noises_. 

He decided to ignore it; if someone was indeed in the house with him—meaning both upstairs and downstairs—he might as well wait for them to come to him. Jon had watched enough scary movies to know that was how the bad guys got the victims. He quickly scanned the room for something to use should it come to a fight. His eyes landed on a beautiful ornate dagger, perched on the mantelpiece, and by the looks of the blade, it was Valyrian steel, meaning it was definitely sharp enough to do at least some damage. He jumped from his seat, and in three long strides he was by the fireplace, dagger in his hand, ready to fight. 

Yet no other noises came. He jumped. A crow cawed just outside the window, its beak hitting the glass once, twice, three times. Jon nearly threw the dagger at it. 

“I’m losing my godsdamned mind.” With a huff, he collapsed on the sofa. 

After that, sleep evaded him the rest of the night. Unable to relax and too nervous to venture to the kitchen, Jon drank what remained of his water bottle and watched crappy television until dawn. He’d never admit it if asked, but Westeros’ Most Eligible Bachelor was his guilty pleasure, and he was pleased that he finally had the time to binge the new season. 

Somewhere between the hot tub and the rose ceremony, Jon dozed off again. When he woke up, it was unnaturally bright outside for October. The manor looked less intimidating in daylight, so he had no qualms in venturing out the of the sitting room to find the kitchen. He was pleasantly surprised to find it still held a few pantry essentials—like sweet delicious coffee grounds!—and crackers and hard cheese. He whipped up a quick breakfast and ate in front of the TV. Afterwards, he got enough courage to explore some more of the rooms upstairs and decided to take a shower in one of the many bathrooms. 

Still on edge, he moved so fast, the water was barely starting to get warm before he was already done and drying his body with a towel. He hastily changed his clothes and put half of his hair in a bun. He was jogging down the grand staircase when his gaze fell on the huge family painting. Jon dropped the keys; they landed with a hard thud on the carpeted floor. He almost forgot it was there. But what made the hairs stand on the back of his neck was the smirk that the woman now wore on her face. Jon was fairly certain she was not smirking last night. In fact, he was positively sure that her face was schooled into the same indifferent expression the two men wore—it seemed to be the signature Targaryen look of contempt Jon lacked. 

He definitely had to get out of here. Jon snapped out of it, picked up the big ring of keys from the floor and left. He turned the key once, although he had the feeling that if someone wanted to rob the place, a simple lock wouldn’t deter them. 

When he got back to the main street, the town definitely looked more animated. There were people bustling in and out of the small shops, children riding bikes and excitedly talking about the All Saints’ Eve celebrations. Jon didn’t realise it was tonight. He never cared much for the celebration, as the North followed the Old Gods, and they had a different day to celebrate the dead. 

Jon stopped by the only place he knew in town: the diner. Just as the town itself, the diner had experienced an overnight transformation: hollowed pumpkins with lit candles inside littered the path to the front door, and a pumpkin pie aroma filled his nose as soon as he came close to the building. As he entered, Jon could swear that all the patrons stopped to stare at him. At least he thought they did, until a large hand clapped him on his back. 

“Come in, son, don’t block the entrance,” a voice startled him. As Jon turned, he realised the voice belonged to an old policeman. 

“Apologies, I haven’t slept well.” 

“Sit, let me buy you a coffee,” the man gently pushed him towards the bar, and signalled Shireen, who was also gawking at him, Jon realised. At the man’s words, she snapped out of it.

“Jon,” he thought he should introduce himself. 

“Kids these days call me Chief Davos.” The man smiled at Shireen as she refilled his cup with fresh black coffee and poured a second one for Jon. His mouth watered. “What brings you around these parts, Jon?”

“A few loose ends. I won’t be staying long, I’m afraid.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Shireen busy herself cleaning the counter closer to them. 

“Anything we can do to help?” the old man asked.

“Actually, yes, if you can point me to a realtor, I have a house to sell and the sooner I can get a price, the better.” He thought he heard Shireen gasp quietly. 

Chief Davos took a long sip of his coffee. “My son can help with that. Afraid you’d have to wait until Monday for him to come back, though.” 

It occurred to Jon that the man never asked what house he was selling. But word travelled fast in small towns, so it shouldn’t surprise him that the chief was already informed about him. The man was probably just doing his job. 

The walkie talkie on Chief Davos’ arm started buzzing, an electronic voice calling his name. “Duty calls.” With that, he took another long sip from his mug and stood. “My son will come by on Monday to discuss your business. Until then, try to stay out of trouble.”

Jon frowned. He wanted to ask what trouble was there to get in on Dragonstone. Instead he thanked the man for his help and watched him leave, but not before he gave another meaningful look to Shireen who was very much not pretending to be working anymore.

He wanted to ask what was really happening, but when he turned, she looked quite uncomfortable. “So, can I get any more of that delicious life changing pie,” Jon asked instead. His silly question seemed to relax Shireen. 

“It’s pumpkin today.” Without waiting, she cut him a big slice and put it in front of him.

A group of people came in as she did so, distracting her from whatever she seemed to want to say. An old lady took his money—and the generous tip—for the pie and he left. He was almost out on the street, when she ran out after him.

“Jon,” she said, a little out of breath. “Fire helps.”

“Sorry?” 

She sighed and seemed to search for the right words. “With your... _problem_. Fire _will_ help.” 

“Kid, you say that like I’m supposed to know what it means.” Jon chuckled, although he didn’t find the situation that amusing. 

“I just thought I should at least _try_ to help. Take care.” 

Shireen didn’t give him the opportunity to reply, she simply turned and went back inside the diner. He definitely had to get back to mainland soon. Dragonstone, much like the Targaryen side of his family, didn’t seem to like nor want him.

The nagging feeling of being watched returned as soon as he was out of the diner. After a quick grocery run to last him through the weekend (as well as some candy, just in case kids decided to come trick or treating at the manor, although he highly doubted it), Jon went back to the house and sat hours in the study, sifting through the drawers of the various expensive cabinets. He didn’t know exactly what he was searching for, yet he knew it wasn’t anything he happened upon. Some of the books alone were worth a fortune—from first to rare and unique editions. He should probably make sure to put a clause in the contract so the books get donated to a library or university. 

Inside the house, he still couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching him. He made sure not to look at the painting again; and, after he finished eating his dinner, he pulled the sheet back over it. Jon admitted that it freaked him out. _Who decides to have their portrait painted these days_ , he wondered as he tucked the sheet under the sides of the frame. It must have been done shortly before his father’s early death, at least judging from how old he looked in it. 

With the painting covered, Jon felt slightly more at ease—albeit still not comfortable. The wind moaned again outside the walls. Jon approached the window, where he was met with a starless dark sky and the largest full moon he had ever seen. The floor upstairs creaked again. There was no mistake this time, as the sound slowly travelled from one side of the room to the other. 

_There’s always rats_ , Jon tried to argue with himself. However, his hand closed around the handle of the dagger that he’d made sure to have in his proximity the entire day. He froze, waiting for the sounds to start again; but they didn’t. 

After a while, he relaxed and backed away from the window. He turned on the TV and flipped through the channels until he found one that was airing his favourite All Saints’ Eve movie. 

He still refused to settle anywhere but in the main sitting room. So he stripped to his boxer briefs and the black cotton t-shirt he was wearing under his sweater and settled onto the sofa. After he made sure to hide the dagger underneath the pillow, he covered himself with a wool blanket he found in the study and let himself be lulled to sleep. 

Jon startled awake. He heard hard footsteps in the vestibule, he was certain. His hand reached for the dagger; his heart was beating loud into his ears, in spite of the silly sounds coming from the TV. The footsteps grew louder; yet when they should have reached him and revealed a person, nothing happened. A few agonizingly long seconds later, Jon decided to look up. 

He was alone. 

Emboldened, he sat up and looked behind the sofa, then towards the opened door. 

Still nothing. 

The wind blew stronger, scattering more leaves outside. In the distance, a cat meowed loudly. His eyes went from the full moon shining at the window, to the big fireplace filled with logs. He remembered Shireen and her weird advice. Refusing to allow himself to overthink it, he went to the mantelpiece and picked up the box of matches he found earlier in the study. The logs immediately caught fire and the flames roared in the large fireplace. The reddish hue from the flames calmed his nerves. It was just stress; he was emotional. Being here brought back all the repressed hate and jealousy he felt towards his biological father.

As he gazed into the flames he finally let himself admit just how disappointed h was by the lack of answers the manor provided. Here he was, still abandoned by the family who never wanted him. There was no greater reason to shun him out; they were just selfish people. At the end of the day, he was a Stark and Stark only. Even the Manor—historical seat of the family, passed down from generation to generation—rejected him. How else could he explain the weird happenings? 

Resigned, he went back to the sofa. On the table, the deed taunted him; it changed nothing. His act of rebellion meant nothing. So he signed it, turned off the TV and went back to sleep. Come morning he’ll pack and leave. Maybe he could find someone in King’s Landing he could send here and deal with the sale. 

Jon was dreaming; he must have been, because snow was falling from the ceiling of the room. Big snowflakes fell on his face and melted on impact. He reached a hand up to catch a few on his fingers—they didn’t feel cold at all; they felt soft. He turned his gaze to the fireplace: inside, the flames were bigger than he remembered. Yet, snow still fell around the room, covering the surfaces in a thin veil of flurries. He huffed out a breath, which he could see going up to the high ceiling. 

He wasn’t cold. 

The snow crunched closest to the door. It almost sounded like footsteps; Jon thought they seemed hesitant. But when before he had been afraid, now he was calm—curious, even. 

When the footsteps reached the back of the sofa, he expected to see someone. The room seemed just as empty as before. Jon sat up; sure enough, a pair of footprints trailed from the door to the sofa. Jon blinked, as a fresh layer of snow covered and erased them. 

He thought he saw movement from the corner of his eye, but when he turned, nothing but furniture was in the dark part of the room. 

A log cracked underneath the flames, distracting him. When he turned his eyes to the big chair by the fireplace, someone sat in it. 

He blinked, unsure of what—or who—he was seeing. The girl from the painting stared at him, dressed in her red and black dress, waiting for him to say something.

 _It’s just a dream_ , he thought. He was alone and going through an emotional time in his life. His brain was conjuring up images to cope with the disappointment and hurt. There were no other Targaryens alive, he was the last one left. 

She smiled then, and for a second Jon was reminded of the smile the painting had just that morning. It took him a few seconds to realise the snow was falling harder now. Still, he wasn't cold. She silently watched him—for how long he couldn’t tell—her gaze intense, slowly passing over every inch of him that was exposed. Her fingers gripped the chair, but her eyes remained trained on his face. A silent question passed between them, and Jon found himself nodding. 

Suddenly she was on top of him, her hands holding his face to hers, her lips wrapping around his, pulling and nipping at them with her teeth. His hands wrapped around her small waist; he gasped as his fingers came in contact with the expensive material and he felt her scorching skin through it. She took advantage and plunged her tongue inside his mouth, massaging and wrapping it around his own. She was eager and impatient, he felt it in her kisses, in the way her hands fumbled with the hem of his t-shirt and hiked it up his torso, in the way her hips bucked against his. 

Jon broke the kiss, gasping for air. With a whine, she pulled the t-shirt up and over his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he had such a vivid sex dream, but as the girl in his lap was kissing down his chest, he realised he didn’t care enough to dwell on it. Just as he didn't care that he was most definitely related to her. 

He found himself being pushed to lie flat against the sofa, as her mouth trailed down his chest, licking and nipping here and there, until she reached the waistband of his boxer briefs. She shuffled down his legs, pulling them with her and leaving him completely naked. 

The snow kept on falling; it fell harder when she took him in her hand and stroked up and down his shaft until he was fully hard. She pulled her dress up and over her head, carelessly letting it fall to the floor. When she climbed over him and aligned herself to his cock, she grasped his face in her hands again, seeking his eyes for something—he supposed it was consent. If all his dreams were like this, then Jon didn’t want to wake up ever again. 

At his nod, she sank down on him and fully sheathed him in her cunt. The heat—it was too much—he felt like he was thrown into the flames. She rode him mercilessly, his eyes rolled to the back of his head as she hung onto his chest, fingers digging into his flesh, his heart threatening to beat out of his ribcage. 

“Blood of my blood,” she moaned as she pulled him up to her breasts.

He grabbed onto her hips, feeling himself getting closer to climax. He could tell she liked that, and he thrust up into her, taking over the rhythm, allowing her to focus on her own release. She snaked a hand in between their bodies, finding her clit and rubbing it fast. With her other hand, she reached for the chain that rested between her breasts—that Jon only just now noticed. She turned the Targaryen sigil between her fingers then pushed it against her right breast. When she dropped the medallion, a small straight cut laid on her milky white flesh, right where she pressed the sigil. Small blood drops bloomed from it. Something compelled Jon to put his mouth to the cut and suck on it. 

Jon’s grunts filled the room, drowning out her moans. He was so close, he was barely hanging by a thread, waiting for her to come first. 

When the blood finally hit his tongue, she shattered around him. “Yes,” she hissed, pulling him closer to her chest, riding the waves of her orgasm. When her cunt stopped spasming, she pulled his face to her mouth and kissed him more passionately than before. 

She pulled back, smiling and started riding him again, just like before. He barely registered when she took the medallion in between her fingers again, this time grazing the side of his neck. When her lips wrapped around the cut and sucked on it, he came. The fireplace roared and the flames seemed to engulf the entire room before they reduced to embers. 

She collapsed on top of him, stroking his heaving ribcage, whispering ‘blood of my blood’ in between other words he could not understand. 

The iron knocker hit the door again and again. Jon jolted awake, feeling drained, his mind too hazy to remember where he was. As his eyes focused on the opulent furniture, he remembered everything. 

“Anybody home?” a man’s voice asked, then the iron knocker banged again against the door, this time harder. 

Jon quickly pulled his jeans on and grabbed the sweater from the pile of clothes next to the sofa, rushing to the front door. The knocking stopped when Jon turned the key in the lock. 

“Hello, sorry—I wasn’t sure you could hear me,” the man quickly explained.

“It’s alright, I must have overslept,” Jon righted his sweater and raked a hand through his hair, pushing the curls out of his face.

He thrust a hand in front of him, “I’m Matthos, the chief’s son.” 

Jon shook his hand. “Is it Monday already?”

“Not quite, I just happened to come back early.” 

Matthos tried to come inside, but Jon pulled the door all the way until it closed and he stepped over the threshold. The man’s eyes went wide, staring between the door and him.

“I’m here about the sale,” he seemed to stutter. “Dad said you want to get rid of the manor as soon as possible.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jon curtly replied. 

“Pardon?” Matthos frowned. 

“I changed my mind. I am not selling it. I’m moving in,” Jon took a step back and put his hand on the iron doorknob. 

“Oh.” The man’s eyes settled on a spot on Jon’s neck. “I see.”

“Sorry for the trouble,” he dismissed him. 

“None at all. Welcome home, then, Mr…”

“Targaryen,” Jon replied with an indifferent expression. 

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t really think that I’m good at spooky stuff, but I tried haha. I did get the aesthetic into my head halfway through October and since then I have been trying to find a way of making it all fit into a fic. That said, I hope that it was entertaining enough! 
> 
> Happy Halloween!


End file.
